London Time
by indigoFirebird
Summary: This is a USUK short story, written totally by me. It is not stolen from deviantART if that's what you're thinking, the person who posted it is me. BluehTheOtaku.


_**London Time - A APH Short Story**_  
><em>Warning, contains yaoi (malexmale relationships) (USUK 3)<em>

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It was 9:00 AM. Alfred F. Jones sat at his kitchen table, picking at a bowl of chocolate ice cream and generally feeling miserable. His face was wet from tears he hadn't bothered to wipe off. Never had the childish country felt less like a hero.

The movie night had been a heavy blow to home for Alfred. He had, rather boldly in his opinion, asked his old friend Arthur Kirkland out to a movie just two nights ago. The following days after the invitation was accepted were stressful enough- the old suit that England had gave him had been the only one he ever owned, and it had been buried deep in the depths of his storage room, among the dusty junk and painful memories that cluttered the closet. But the western country had managed to brush most of the dust off the jacket, and make it look somewhat formal, even with a hardly-noticeable soda stain on the bottom corner. He knew, secretly, that wearing such an article to a movie's midnight premiere would get him some very odd looks, but so would the company he was to keep.

Arthur never showed up.

Alfred had waited for him in the theater, called his cell endless times, waited until the movie was half over; at that time, he was done being hopeful, being brave. The hero gave up. He knew that Arthur's heart was never really in it; for all America knew, the arrogant Brit could be getting drunk with France or Scotland somewhere, or out at the premiere of _Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows Part Two_ with his sister Ireland, who wanted to see the movie as much as Arthur himself did. Or did he?  
>America could've cared less about this "Harry Potter" person, or the whole thought of the midnight premiere. He just wanted to see Arthur again, to see the look on his face when he saw Al in a fancy suit, with the tickets to the movie he knew the American wouldn't have seen if it wasn't for him—<p>

Suddenly Alfred stood up shakily and slammed his spoon into the wood of the table he was sitting at. It clattered to the floor noisily, but not without making a noticeable dent in the table; America, however, could've cared less.

"Damn," he swore to no one in particular, "What was I thinking? That British idiot cares less about me than he does his imaginary friends! Damnit, I am so stupid!" The last word was punctuated with an angry yell and a loud kick to the wall; cursing, Alfred rubbed his sore toes and limped over to the couch, settling into the soft cushions and holding his head in his hands. "Damn…Arthur…"

No sooner had he closed his eyes, exhausted, then the ring of his home phone in the other room startled him fully awake again. America groaned and limped over to the phone, still favoring his sore foot. He read the caller ID, and his heart skipped a beat; it was the person he was both most dreading and wanting to hear from. Stomach churning, he picked up the cordless phone and pressed "Talk".

"H-hello? Britain, is that you?"

"You have caller ID, don't you, Alfred? Yes, it's me. I thought you'd still be up."

Alfred blinked, and bit his lip. Of course he was still awake. He had been waiting for this call.

"Obviously I'm still up, old man. Wh-what's up?" America asked, stifling a huge yawn. He checked his digital watch. 9:45.

"Oh, not much, I was just…just wondering if you'd like to come by, for a visit…?"

America narrowed his eyes. All his pent-up frustration at the man that was once his big brother, the man that had raised him for so long, the man that despite everything couldn't show his face for one special occasion, spilled over and into the phone.

"Wondering if I'd like to come over there? What about you coming over here? What about a certain movie you said you'd come to with me? Did you forget about that, Arthur, or did you just not feel like showing your idiot face in front of me? And what about when you didn't come after all? Did you think I was just going to think it was a simple accident? What if you were hurt, left to die alone somewhere? I didn't know what was going on, where you could've been. I was worried, Arthur, I was out of my mind!" Alfred's voice broke. The frustrated rant had turned into a confession; now thoughts were running through the American's head like a cheetah through the African plains. _Damn, damn, damn it all. He probably hates me now, no, he probably hated me to begin with, now he straight out loathes me._ Suddenly the Western nation's face was wet with fresh tears. Everything was going wrong.

"I wanted you to come over so I could apologize."

The sound of Arthur's voice snapped Alfred back to reality.

"So…so you could apologize?" Alfred was dumbstruck.

"So I could apologize for not being able to make it to the movie. I thought maybe, you'd still like my company…admit it, Al, you could've cared a lot less about _Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows Part Two_."

America couldn't speak. The words caught in his throat, choking him and rendering him temporarily speechless.

"I'll take that as a 'Yes, I'll come'. See you soon. And take care, Al.

"I love you."

There was a silence, then a low, flat beep; England had hung up.

Slowly Alfred, grinning, slipped his suit back on, jammed his phone in his pants pocket, and ran out the door of his house. Slamming it behind him, giddy with happiness, he stepped out into the street, and opened his car door.

Just before he got in the car, America turned to shout one last phrase to the sleeping continent.

"I'm the hero!"

Then he climbed in his car, slammed the door shut, and hit the gas, all the while with a huge smile on his face.

He glanced down at his watch.

The time was 10:30 AM.

London time.


End file.
